


Ivy, birch, and blood

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags As This Updates, Alive Hale Family, Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Child Death, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will live forever so long as he is prepared to pay to pay the price: one child for every stolen year of life. </p><p>Just when Peter tires of his solitude, he stumbles across someone worthy to share in his gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in November/December, but then I got super sick for months. I actually told myself the lie that I'd finish it before I started posting, but apparently I have no self-control. BUT REALLY. I WAS TAUNTED AND ENABLED BEYOND MORTAL ENDURANCE. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. *coughfuckerscough*
> 
> Ngl, this story is all about my love for cannibalism, ~~purple~~ poetic prose, Bluebeard, and fairy tale grossness. I required very little enabling. 
> 
> Check out the end notes for more warnings.

“Peter… what have you done?”

He stiffened and growled at the unwelcome voice intruding on his portion of woods, but he knew it had only been a matter of time before he was discovered. It was a mere season after embracing the necessary, and he had been too greedy. Too many animal attacks, too many children too close to his home had gone missing before he’d spared a thought to expand his hunting grounds. 

But fortune smiled on him when he only saw the smoke-softened silhouette of his sister at the outer perimeter of his camp. Sister or not, he still lifted his head from his half-eaten meal, causing his newly orange eyes to reflect back at her in warning. 

Talia, his sister—his former alpha—stared at the scene, pale-faced in horrified amazement. Her eyes darted between him and the body. He watched, as she took in the intricate plaits embellished with ribs and delicate knucklebones that his new instincts had compelled him to hang from pale birch trees. An errant breeze tossed the bone-braids, bringing with it a charnel reek just as she drew in a reflexive, calming breath. And no wonder she gagged. Obeying his new urges, he had disposed of his previous kills in an ever-widening spiral, centered on his clearing; the foul miasma, drowned out the fresh scents of snow and pine and woodsmoke. Here, the stench of death, blood, and offal had become a permanent feature of his domain. As dusk deepened around them, the bone-mounds of his first victims cast macabre shadows on the freshly fallen snow. In the selfish pursuit of life, Peter had turned the forest into an altar for decay.

He would not have thought so before his curse, but such grotesqueries could be beautiful too. 

Bestial and crouched in the gore-spattered snow, Peter savored one last bite of the liver—small to match its owner—before he answered, “Perhaps you expected me to choose an honorable death, sister, but I did what I had to do. I choose life. I choose _myself_ regardless of the price, and for such a gain why not?” He gestured expansively, sending droplets of blood flying into the fire where they hissed and boiled. “My life is assured so long as I take a child in the winter. I could live forever, and so can you!” He noticed her gaze had been drawn to his head and flashed dripping fangs at her in the parody of a smile. “Do you like my horns? You’d look rather fetching with a pair of your own.”

Talia recoiled in disgust, almost shifting into alpha-form in that brief loss of control. “Never,” she growled. “You’ve taken the final step, but that path is not for me or my children.” She edged forward, her usual fluid grace replaced with stiff caution. “But what kind of life is this? Cursed to a wandering, twilight existence built on the blood and bones of children. That’s no way to live, Peter. _Brother._ Swear you will not force the curse upon us.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “I knew you would refuse. Still, I had to ask. For the love I bear you.” He sighed then, mouth twisting in bitterness. “I’m sorry that it’s come to this, Talia. You were always the better of us. But if you try to put me down, I will win. I’m stronger than you now.” Sparks flew as he tossed a gnawed bone towards the guttering campfire. “The curse has seen to that.”

Talia paused, and closed her eyes. Her face spasmed as though in agony. “No. I’m not here to fight you. But you’ve chosen to embrace the curse.” She stepped closer and laid her hand on his shoulder, unafraid of the way he snarled and snapped. She gripped it tightly, not flinching at the viscera squelching under her hand. “You are my brother, and I love you. God forgive me, but I can not end you.” Fine tremors ran through Talia’s hands as she sank beside him, burying her face in his filthy neck. He could feel her tears cutting trails through the sticky blood on his skin. She breathed him in deeply, scrubbing her cheek against his jaw for what would undoubtedly be the final time. The resulting streak of blood on her face was a stark contrast to her fair skin. “But you will leave this place and not return. Not until my grandchildren’s grandchildren have all passed on. You will find other hunting grounds, or I will gather enough of us to end you…. _Please,_ don’t make me kill my brother.” 

“Now now. That’s no way for an alpha to comport herself. Don’t spend your tears on me, pretty Talia. I will leave your children and their descendants in peace.” Peter stood and plucked her hand from his shoulder. He pulled her into his embrace, stroking her long hair with bloody hands. “Shh, Talia. I’ll travel far from this place, and you’ll never see me again.”

Sighing, he released her, chucking her lightly under the chin. He would miss her and the rest of his family, but at least he would be alive to experience such melancholy. “Farewell, sister. Remember me fondly if you can.”

“God be with you,” she replied without thought then bit her lip, stricken. Talia clutched at his shoulders, her claws lengthening before she remembered herself and retracted them. “God be with you,” she repeated firmly. “And if He cannot, then may you have the Devil’s own luck.”

Peter nodded and turned. “Safe travels,” he murmured to the sound of her swift retreat through the brush, knowing she would hear him. He returned to his fire and his corpse. For a moment, a fragile, fleeting regret bubbled up in his chest. He ignored it and sat there until the falling snow buried the last of the dying embers. Finally, on a moonless winter night, Peter rose to his feet, shifting smoothly into his strange, new form. He still stood on two legs, but changes great and small combined so that he resembled a hulking, black goat more than the wolf he had been. With a toss of his curling horns, he loped off into the darkness. If he ran, then he could be deep in another pack’s territory within a few candlemarks’ time.

He could do this small thing for Talia and his family. He may be doomed, cursed to an eternal half-life, forced to consume children for his own survival, but Peter Hale kept his promises.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! Just a reminder, but this fic is full of uncomfortable and disgusting things. Like cannibalism and hunting children. Please don't read this if you're not comfortable with that sort of story.
> 
> Thanks to all the usual suspects, but especially Pib and TriDom and Pie and Mia for loving this a lot.

He’s in a quaint, little northern California town, Beacon Hills. He comes through on occasion to see what his descendents are doing with themselves. It’s something of a game to Peter, watching the Hales spread and multiply across the New World, and this particular branch has managed to keep his interest over the last few decades. He does like them, almost in spite of himself. 

They aren’t aware that his longevity comes with certain _conditions_. Sharing too much of the truth about his weaknesses never pans out for him, so these new Hales only know enough to consider him a strange and dangerous uncle-figure who has lived far beyond the normal lifespan given to werewolves. The children always ask him about dark rituals performed under the light of the moon while Peter says nothing, allowing the rumors to run wild and take on a life of their own.

The current matriarch is named Talia, after his beloved sister. Her name has become a staple for unprepared Hale parents, holding their daughters for the first time. Unfortunately for him, that’s where the resemblance ends. His sister had been small and lovely and far too influenced by sentiment. This Talia is tall and dark and full of dreadful morality. She would have killed him during that moment in the woods rather than allow him to prey on another child. It adds a special, piquant spice to their encounters, imagining the depths of her repulsion if she had any idea what manner of man she and her children embrace and call Uncle.

As a being that is effectively immortal, Peter needs some method of amusing himself, aside from his family. Which is why he’s in the “good” mall, dressed in an appalling, red polyester suit with an irritating fake beard attached to his face. Smiling benevolently at the screaming children are wrapped around the candy cane barrier marking Santa’s Grotto. All waiting for their chance to sit on his lap and whine out their selfish desires to an indifferent god.

The irony of being a mall Santa has long since lost its entertainment value, but the convenience is undeniable. Peter doesn’t do this every year. As easy as it makes choosing his yearly sacrifices, he despises all of the sticky brats and their useless parents. (Honestly, stuffing some of these children in a burlap sack and eating them should be considered a good deed.) But when winter rolls around this year, he succumbs to nostalgia. If he can’t recapture the days of his actual youth, then he’ll have to settle for something more recent. The 1940s and ‘50s had been good to him. God bless whoever had written _Miracle on 34th Street_.

His musings are interrupted by a wispy-curled, gap-toothed urchin who appears at his side. Peter should be paying more attention if they’re capable of sneaking up on him now. The child is drowning in an oversized deputy’s jacket, covering an obnoxiously loud plaid print and blue jeans. Worst of all, it’s nearly closing time, and the boy seems to be here _sans_ parents.

“Hi, Santa,” he lisps around a hard candy. Each exhale puffs out an overwhelming, peppermint-scented breeze.

Peter has learned to follow the urgings of his bestial self. The soft, still voice never leads him astray. When it whispers _yes, this one_ , he answers the call. 

So when his Other looks at this child with hunger, _with yearning_ , he pays heed. Peter frowns behind his beard and leans over the arm of the garishly painted chair. 

“You shouldn’t wander without your parents. I’m sure you don’t want to end up on the Naughty List.” 

The little boy shakes his head. “I’m not alone. Daddy went over there!” He points in the direction of Perfumania. It’s empty except for one bored-looking sales associate, or Peter can only assume she’s bored since she’s alternating between huffing tester strips and filing her nails at the cash register.

“Are you sure that’s where he went, and you didn’t actually come here all alone?” When the boy screws up his face, ready to protest, Peter holds up a hand. “Don’t forget. I’m Santa. I know when you’ve been bad or good, and I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

At Peter’s reminder, the thin shoulders slump. The kid lets out a sigh that’s far too adult for such a little boy. It’s uncanny what the last few centuries have done. Children are remarkably free and unburdened. Nowadays, they rarely sound so tired and weighed down, but all the signs point to this being one of _them_. It happens every year he plays Santa. A few hopeful children come to him, sit on his lap, and they make innocent, heartbreaking requests—usually for a family member’s good health, sometimes for daddy to stop hitting them, or for mommy to stop drinking. He never knows if their pathetic stories will arouse his tenderness or a desire to rip and tear. At times, it’s both. The desire to heal and hurt has entwined, so the aid he most often chooses to render ends with murder. But whose murder? _That_ remains the question. 

“I asked Daddy for a pretzel and left the food court. But I hadta come see you. It’s _important_.” His little arms flail, jacket sleeves fluttering around him like broken wings. His light brown eyes widen until they seem to swallow up half his face. It’s adorable, the utter fervency with which he believes his conniving actions serve a greater purpose.

“That sounds serious, son. Why don’t you sit up here and tell me all about it?” Peter pats his velveteen-covered lap. The little boy holds out his hand: a tacit demand for help in climbing onto the man. It’s clear that he doesn’t even stop to consider he might be denied. He’s tiny, wearing ill-fitting clothes, and imperious as a dictator. Peter finds him wholly endearing. For the first time, the stirring interest from his Other unsettles him—it’s too early to call it concern.

Once the boy has comfortably settled on top of Peter, he turns shy and starts playing with the fake beard. “My mama calls me Stiles,” he whispers. “Everyone messes up my real name.” Huge, unblinking eyes stare up at Peter. “Are you really Santa? Only the real Santa can help me, but a boy in my class said Santa’s fake. He said our parents were all liars, and I hit him ‘cuz Scott cried.” From the faint quiver of Stiles’ lips, it looks like Scott isn’t the only one who cried. 

“Well, as you can see, I’m quite real.” He smiles down at Stiles, though it loses some effect when the boy hides his face in Peter’s beard.

“Prove it!” Stiles demanded, pudgy fingers tugging painfully at the beard fixed to Peter’s face. 

Ah. This is one of Peter’s favorite tricks of the trade. He never tires of the way it shocks and delights children, one final gift before he rends them into so much meat. He subtly sniffs at the boy his lap, simultaneously reaching for the Other within him to seek out the secrets of Stiles’ day.

“You spilled your cereal this morning.” Peter brushes the material above Stiles’ left pants pocket. “It landed here.” He ignores Stiles’ gasp of surprise. “You were finger-painting at school.” He sees a flash of angry yelling and stained clothing. “Ahhh. You painted on that mean boy’s clothes. That was very naughty of you, Stiles.”

Stiles bounces in indignation, tugging at Peter’s fake beard. “Jackson deserved it!”

Peter winces and untangles the little fingers from the luxurious fall of hair—no synthetic pieces for him. “Was he the one who said that I wasn’t real?” Stiles nods with vigor. “That was still naughty of you. And you got in trouble at school and with your parents didn’t you?” The boy’s nodding turns a bit glum at the reminder, the hangdog expression out of place on his small face.

“But your father still let you have chicken nuggets for dinner and brought you to the mall, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“You really are Santa!” he whisper-yells. At this range, it’s deafening.

“I am,” Peter answers with great solemnity.

“So…” Stiles nestles closer. “Does that mean you can help my mommy? She’s real sick. And sometimes she forgets.”

Ahh. Sick family is more and less difficult. It requires no effort on his part, but it also means that there’s nothing he can do. Human disease remains resistant to murder and ritual sacrifice. The painful hope on his innocent face stirs up some scrap of pity in Peter’s heart.

“She forgets?”

The boy shrugs. “Where she is. If she ate dinner.” His voices shrinks down until it’s barely audible. “Me.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Peter says gently. “There’s nothing I can do for your mother.”

Stiles hunches in on himself and sniffles once. Then he straightens up and gives Peter a wobbly smile. “It’s okay. I just wanted to ask. Just in case.”

“Oh, my dear boy.” Peter sighs. “I can’t do anything for your mother, but perhaps I can do something for you.”

His face transforms with happiness, the threat of tears retreating for the moment. “For me? Really!”

“That’s right, Stiles. For you. I’ll talk to the elves and see what I can do.” He taps the tiny nose on the upturned tip. “Now be a good boy. I want you to go to my helper there.” Peter points at the closest “elf”. “That’s Amy. Tell her that you need to go to information and have them call for your dad. I’m sure he’s looking all over for you.”

“Thanks, Santa!” Stiles throws his spindly arms around his chest and squeezes, so Peter returns the embrace. The boy is so small that Peter’s hand almost spans the width of his back as he pats it. 

When he judges that the hug has gone on long enough, he releases Stiles, carefully nudging him to the edge of his lap. “Here’s your candy cane, Stiles. Now off you go.”

Stiles clambers down from Peter, as though from a jungle gym, candy cane clutched in his hand. “Bye, Santa!”

He watches Stiles tug Amy in the direction of the food court, chattering non-stop, and he smiles. It’s genuine, exuding a deep joy and peace with the world. It’s nothing like the smile of the man who’s going to stop by little Stiles’ house and offer a _special_ solution to his problem.

* * *

Never let it be said that Peter lacks conviction. He has rejected every other option, even waited a month—growing more and more hungry with each passing day—all to have this one boy on his favorite night to hunt.

He’s always loved Christmas Eve.

Now he runs through the town, only transforming his eyes and the parts of himself that remain hidden beneath his clothing. The roads are deserted at this late hour, but that’s no reason to be careless—no matter his excitement. Again and again, he tamps down the rising ebullience. By the time he reaches the Stilinski’s neighborhood, he’s ceased to fight against the exhilaration of the hunt and starts to whistle “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. It seems fitting in a macabre sort of way.

The moon hangs large and full, directly above his chosen’s house like a modern-day Star of Bethlehem. Though it holds no sway over him—and hasn’t for centuries—the smothered impulses of his werewolf nature are satisfied by this sign.

When the moon itself agrees with his choice, who can stand against him?

Peter follows the pull of Stiles’ scent: sugary candy, medication, soap covering clean little boy sweat, and the underlying milky softness of the very young. They’re so tender at this age, before they’ve had the time to fully ripen. When they are equal portions of cruelty and kindness, the inherent inhumanity of humans warring against the learned consideration so valued by society.

It’s the work of a minute to steal across the lawn, up the porch rails to the roof. He treads lightly on the shingles, to the window where Stiles’ essence hangs like an almost a palpable weight in the air, but… it’s too quiet.

His head cocks. He should hear the soft breaths and rabbit-quick heartbeats of a little boy, asleep in his bed—waiting for Santa, but there’s nothing.

He quickens his pace, jimmying open the window with practiced movements and sliding inside with a grace that belies his odd, goat-like form. He surveys the room with glowing, slit-pupil eyes. The bed is empty. The blanket is missing, and the sheet are tossed back in careless disarray. Peter crouches down to feel the bed linens. They’re cool to the touch. Stiles hasn’t been here for hours.

With narrowed eyes, he takes in a great breath, cataloging the myriad scents of Stiles and the Stilinski household. He holds it in and listens. In the next room, there’s the restful, deep breathing of two adults, one of them faintly nasal with the hint of a snore. And farther… yes. _Downstairs_. There’s the soft breath and beating heart he expects.

How _sweet_. Stiles is waiting for Santa. Well, Peter would be loath to disappoint the boy.

He walks downstairs with a song his heart and a spring in his step. The plan is unfolding perfectly, and it’s even better when he catches sight of the little miscreant, awash in the multi-hued glow from the twinkling tree lights.

Stiles lies, curled on the couch, beneath a fluffy, blue blanket—the missing comforter. He’s a tiny bundle of humanity, angelic in his sleep. He’ll be even more delicious than the buttery shortbread squares and crinkly, sugar-topped molasses cookies on the nearby coffee table.

Hunting on Christmas Eve is always full of these small delights.

Peter kneels by the couch and inhales Stiles’ scent—its medicinal edges softened with sleep. He pilfers a cookie, enjoying the burst of sugared spices melting over his tongue. He savors the treat—the sharp bite of ginger only serving to whet his appetite. The lingering flavor enhances each of the deep, heady lungfuls that Peter draws. There’s nothing in the world quite like the scent of sugar and clean children.

How long he lingers, Peter cannot say, but he kneels beside Stiles, breathing him in long enough for the child to stir. Stiles wanders back from the land of dreams by slow degrees, snuffling and squirming, rubbing sleep-crusted eyes with tiny fists—all under Peter’s avid scrutiny. As soon as he wakes, he looks straight up at Peter. His eyes round comically as he huddles beneath the blanket.

“Your beard is gone, Santa! And your hair isn’t white anymore.” He scowls ferociously from his little blue nest. “Are you sure that you’re the _real_ Santa?”

“Now what a thing to say!” Peter lays his hand over his heart, in a show of shock and dismay. “Don’t I know when you’ve been naughty or nice? Aren’t I here now, on Christmas Eve?”

An unchildlike calculation lights Stiles’ eyes, and he purses his pink cupid’s bow lips, puffing out his chubby cheeks as he considers Peter's point. “My daddy’s a deputy, but I won’t tell him you’re here… if you’re real. And if you’re really Santa, then you should have presents for me ‘cause I’ve been very good. Mommy said so.”

Presents. Some cheeky bit of baggage is trying to extort presents out of the strange man who’s come to eat him. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turn up, and Peter huffs in amusement. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this entertained. Almost of their own volition, the muscles in his face stretch, and an unabashedly toothy smile blooms on Peter’s face. (All the better to eat you with.)

 _You have him. Now. Take him away._ , urges his Other. Take? Long experience prevents the shock from reaching his face. _Bind it with ivy. Scourge him with birch. Ravage or keep. Choose._ The Other rattles noisily inside his head. Its urges have never divided him so neatly, so painfully. 

Peter takes a breath and chooses. 

“I do have something for you, Stiles,” he croons. “Something very special.”

“Really,” Stiles gasps. “Where is it?” Bouncing in his nest, Stiles cranes his head around Peter, like he suspects it’s hiding behind Peter’s back.

Peter chuckles. “Impatient little bugger aren’t you?”

“Where’s my present, Santa?”

The reminder that he’s promised to produce a suitable gift catches Peter flat-footed. Despite his many years of carrying out the Santa ruse, this has never happened before. Peter has always solved his complications by dining and dashing, but that’s not an option here. Not when Stiles bursts with potential. Not when this is the first child his Other craves as more than mere sustenance.

Peter schools his face into a stern expression. He channels the latest Talia. Judging by the disappointment on Stiles’ face, it works. “Stiles, I can’t leave you presents while you’re still awake. That wouldn’t be fair. In the morning, you’ll find it in your room.” He leans in, close enough to brush noses with Stiles. “It’s a special present, Stiles. A _secret_ present. Can you keep a secret?”

“I can, Santa!” Stiles nods his head vigorously. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”

He smiles then. “No need for all of that… but you’ll never see me again if you break your promise. It’s part of the Christmas magic,” Peter lies with utter sincerity.

“I’ll see you again?”

“Of course.” Peter presses his cheek against Stiles’ and picks him up, blankets and all. “You’ll see me again when you’re older, but first, it’s time for all good little children to be in bed.”

Stiles grumbles a bit as Peter carries him up the stairs, but he quiets once they reach the second floor, not wanting to alert his parents. He remains quiet and cooperative through the entire process of being set on the mattress and Peter arranging the blankets over him _just so_. Only when the duvet touches his chin and Peter draws away does Stiles grab for his arm.

“Santa,” he whispers. “Do you promise that I’ll have a present when I wake up?”

“I promise.” Peter strokes Stiles’ curling mop of hair and holds his sticky hand. He’ll never understand how children this age are always so sticky.

“And you promise I’ll see you again.”

“Oh yes, Stiles. Of that you can be sure.” Peter’s eyes glow orange, startling a gasp out of the child. “Now sleep. Soon it will be morning, and you’ll wake up to something wonderful.”

Peter sits on the edge of Stiles’ little bed, watching him fall asleep. Though the boy struggles against the rising tide of unconsciousness, it soon carries him away. He moves to stand, to leave, but once more, his Other rises up. Curious, Peter follows the inexplicable urgings of his Other and kisses Stiles on the forehead. To his senses, a mark blazes like a tiny star and sinks into Stiles’ skin, but it leaves something behind: a warning to any of his kind that this one is spoken for.

“So that’s the way of it,” he murmurs. “I’ll be counting the years ‘til my return. Sweet dreams.”

With renewed purpose, Peter slips from the room, regretful at the necessity of leaving Stiles, but the night is young and Peter has yet to sate his most pressing needs.

Humming to himself, Peter lopes to the other side of town in search of something more disposable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you saw any mistakes, typos, etc. Definitely let me know if you think I should add any tags. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> AO3 briefly added italics to every paragraph, but it's all fixed now. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Peter is a Krampus-like being, and he eats children to stay alive. He will always eat children to stay alive. He is not going to be "cured". It's not that kind of fairy tale. There won't be any shota, but it will feature high school aged Stiles. I'm not sure how many descriptions of gore there will be, but I'll probably try to keep it minimally graphic like the prologue.
> 
> This hasn't been edited by anyone except for me, so let me know if you catch any mistakes etc. Also let me know if I missed tagging something important. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought!
> 
> In case anyone is wondering, I am still working on updates to my other WIPs. See: my lack of control.


End file.
